â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe
is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even
more bizarre and inexplicable.

‘There is another theory which states that
this has already happened.’
Extract from ‘The Restaurant at the End of
the Universe’, Douglas Adams

Welcome to our second issue! While both the concepts of ‘everything’
and ‘the universe’ are near incomprehensible to me, there’s a certain joy
in pondering the ins, outs, and whys of our little pocket of life. There are
more questions than could ever be asked, and we don’t have all (okay,
any of) the answers. But, we can certainly help you celebrate the small
things and the beauty of our world, with a bit of inspiration and creativity
along the way.
If you really need an answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe,
and everything, I point you to Douglas Adams. His solution to the riddle,
presented in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy? 42. And why on Earth
not?
Many thanks to our brilliant contributors who have offered their time and
creative talents, and enriched this project with their voices. We’ve featured some of them over the page, but we wish we could have fit them all
in!
Until next time, Anna xx

inside
12

Cover illustrator

38
52

Claire Perini is freelance Illustrator and typographer under
the name Write On! Designs, and the creator and mastermind
behind The Lightbulb Lounge Room. She first established
herself on our eastern shores studying a Diploma of Commercial Arts at CATC in 2009, specialising in the art of typography
and illustration. However, an independent business mind saw
the young creative wanting to pursue her passion for the arts
in a more self directed capacity and her motivations led her
to securing a gallery space in North Bondi where she could
dream big.
With a sizeable handful of inspiring friends and a boatload of
ideas, Claire opened the doors to The Lightbulb Lounge Room
to a curious public in April 2011. The concept was centred on
the idea of building a place where artists could come together
to create, network and to generate a supported creative community, which would foster opportunities for emerging talent
to be recognised in the wider creative commercial arena.

54

66

www.the-llr.com

featured Contributors

Issy Beech is a make-shift writer with almost
zero higher education, a weirdly sincere Facebook addiction and a pretty serious relationship with her bed. She admires Andrea
Gibson, Lena Dunham, William S. Burroughs
and Luke Davies.

At 20 years of age, Jayde deBondt is currently
living on the Gold Coast attending Bond University. Although she’s studying journalism,
she has a burning desire to eventually write
and publish her own children’s books. She’s
an outdoors person, and often draws inspiration from her childhood on the family farm in
Victoria. Jayde believes writing is an art, and
feels honoured when others read and enjoy
what she’s written.

Rachela Nardella is 20 years young and the
splendour of youth, colours and the world
around us is what she strives to capture.
Rachela is searching for things that fuel her
imagination, amongst an equally healthy
obsession with all things cat related and earl
grey tea.

Kaya Ra Edwards grew up in Byron Bay NSW,
and moved to Melbourne to study writing
in 2010. After having an existential crisis in
the most clichéd way possible by dropping
out of university and working at McDonalds,
she travelled South East Asia and found her
feet again. Kaya moved to Brisbane in 2012
to study writing (again!) at QUT. She loves
tea and glitter and her boyfriend’s beard.
Kaya has previously been published in Young
Writer’s Showcase, and Voiceworks.

Mark Piccini is a thin chain of islands swallowed by extreme tidal conditions once or
twice every decade. The lengthy, fractured
narratives produced by the inhabitants of
the archipelago, extolling the anguish and
hopelessness of their situation at the mercy
of nature, are considered curios. The inhabitants of Mark Piccini do not enjoy long walks
on the beach. The island chain received an
honorary degree in Creative Writing out of
sympathy for the stoic inhabitants abysmal
plight.

Instead of four, Wellington-based photographer Anna Birchall is now 16, but this is the
only picture she could find where she wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t
batting away whoever was taking the picture.
She decided very early on she was more at
home behind the camera.

Kyra Bandte is a coffee-drinking, secondhand-book addict who studies creative writing at UOW. Though she enjoys writing short
stories and poems, she has been known to
dabble in non-fiction, blogs and newspaper
articles. Her favourite colour is green and she
likes overcast skies.

Vanessa Chan is a self taught artist with a
penchant for all things kooky and macabre.
She draws as much as she can in her free
time while holding a full time job in a publishing company. She adores animals and reckons she has all the makings of a potential
crazy cat lady.
She is currently working on illustrating a childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s book of poems.

Michelle Allan is a 22 year old emerging
poet and writer based in Melbourne. She
completed her Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing and Psychology at Melbourne
University during 2012 and is currently
planning to undertake a Masters in publishing and editing. When she's not writing, Michelle enjoys reading comics and
spending time with her dog, friends, and
family.

creativity

200 drawings
200 days
Peter Fong, a talented young
illustrator from South Australia,
recently undertook a mammoth
challenge: a drawing a day for
two hundred days. We asked him
to pick out a few of his favourite
creations from the project.
#145 “He had been wishing so hard while in his egg to be a bird. Close enough! Best
of both worlds. Turtles look like they’re flying when they’re swimming, flapping their
fins and all. I decided to make it real.”

#115 “Chinese New Year means lychee eating
time. I love lychees.”

#5 “This was the 5th day of the project. I was excited starting it.”

#70 “I like hermit crabs and
the idea of something carrying its whole home around
where ever it goes.”
#14 “I named this creature Quattuordecim Maximum.
It has a short and colourful life of only 14 days. On
reaching its 14th day, its head explodes. ‘Quattuordecim Maximum’ means 14 maximum in Latin.”

#90 “I stayed at a beach house over New Years. Colourful happy times, as showed through the drawings, too.”

#177 “My laptop’s
hard drive had broken
down and I hadn’t
backed up anything,
so I was stressing out.
I sent it into a repair
shop and they were
able to retrieve everything and replace my
hard drive. Such relief.
A very happy moment
in my life.”

#139 “I just like
this piece.”

www.peter-fong.com
Check out his drawing a day project at
www.peterpatterpeter.blogspot.com.au

make do

old wives’ tales
revisited

I

n this myth-busting edition, we look at the
expression “when life gives you lemons”.
If you believe everything you read, there’s a
lot more that can be done with them than
just making lemonade. Some are timetested (lemon as an air freshener and hair
bleach), and some seem a little less plausible. ANNA ANGEL tried out the pick of the
bunch.

Stop hair grease?

Soothe sunburn and cleanse skin?

Make dull things shine?

Hair is a funny thing. We want it to be shiny and luscious, without any excess oil or, on the other side of
the spectrum, being too dry. No wonder we’re willing to do ridiculous things that go against our better
judgement, like putting lemon juice in our hair. I heard
if you shampoo and condition but find your hair greasy
at the one day mark, a rinse of lemon juice before
conditioning will even it out. These kinds of beauty
tips come with warnings that you shouldn’t go out into
the sun directly afterward because your hair might
lighten, FYI. My hair is normally oily at the roots within
24 hours of washing, and like all of us with limp, soggy hair, I would love to only have to wash it every two
or three days. I really wanted this to work, and gave it
a whole fortnight – which may not be enough for any
conclusive proof – and found it was a dud. It did stop
the oil from coming through so quickly. So, it’s actually
living up to its claims, which is more than I can say for
the tens of blatant lies I came across (see: contraception). However, oily hair is not normally greasy at the
ends. In fact, they can be quite dry. So I don’t need
lemon juice soaking up the good and bad oils in my
hair and leaving me with an all-round straw-like consistency. Maybe it’ll provide a good balance for those
with a more even hair condition? Let us know if you’ve
found it works for you.

Lemon is not the first thing that comes to mind when I
think of the word ‘soothing’. You’re red raw, burnt and
aching from a day in the sun. What you really need is
something acidic to throw over your burns.

Most people don’t spend an awful lot of time complaining their pots and pans aren’t sparkling, but
sometimes you just want nice things. If you’ve got
some old rust buckets, apparently lemon juice will
bring them back to standard. I was most excited to
try this one because of the application method: cut
half a lemon, sprinkle bi carb soda on the fleshly part,
grab the base and start scrubbing! If we were rating
on a scale of how fun it was to clean the pans, I’d give
it a solid nine out of ten. Because you don’t have to
extract the juice, it saves on time and mess and as a
bonus you look hilarious rubbing a lemon directly onto
your kitchen wares.

GRADE: Plausible, 5/10

While I couldn’t bring myself to get sunburnt for the
purposes of this test, I did try out a DIY cleanser. A
mix of a quarter cup lemon juice to two cups water
felt nice and fresh on my skin, but did dry it out a little. Given lemon’s use as an acne fix, this might be a
good homemade trick for when the pimples flare up.
I also read that when cleansing with lemon, you pour
the juice on slices of cucumber and rub them over
your face. That was not pleasant at all, and I dropped
the cucumber slice so many times it probably made
my face dirtier. Sticking to the water solution seems
like a simpler, less frustrating method.
If anyone has tried out lemon juice as sunburn relief,
please let us know how it went. For now, we’re going
to stick to aloe vera. Works a charm every time.

GRADE: Plausible,

5/10

But does it do anything? Yes. That could be mostly or
wholly attributed to the bi carb soda, but I think the
combination was what kicked in the shine: the juice
acts as the liquid to activate the bi carb, and does its
own acidic tricks on the side. Just rinse and dry, and
you’ll be the envy of probably no one, but you’ll have
shiny kitchen silvers. This also works for taps, doorknobs, the kitchen sink and any other chrome, brass
or stainless steel surface.

Grade: Pass, 7/10

Protect from cats?

Keep rice from sticking together?

We have a 'no judging' policy, so I tried to test this
one without questioning what kind of sick individual
wants to ward off cats from their front lawn. Imagine:
a neighbourhood feline approaches, steps over the
lemon barrier and yelps, retracting its paw as if scalded. WHO WANTS THIS? I'm going to assume someone
who loves birds and wildlife, or maybe just keeps a
prize-winning garden and cats can't read the 'Keep Off
the Grass' sign.

I’ve never made rice that didn’t stick together, and not
in the yummy ‘sticky rice’ kind of way. If this worked I
was going to give myself a pat on the back for finally
being able to produce a food staple adequately. Then
I remembered it wouldn’t be me that did it, but the
lemon juice. Damn.

Make food last and stay pretty?

Yes! Hear that, fast food outlets? You don't need crazy
chemical preservatives with numbers for names when
you have nature's best age-defier. These babies also
taste fantastic, so there's no hassle adding a few
drops of lemon to any salad dressing (goodbye, wilted
lettuce!) or dip. Whereas, where can one buy preservative 216, and what exactly is Propylparaben going to
I tried this with the regular absorption method (adding do to my lunch? Anyone?
two tablespoons of lemon juice to the boiling water
before putting in the rice) and it seemed to help the
Adding lemon to freshly made guacamole will prevent
Once I moved on from this, I set about spraying a line end consistency. I then found out the same principle
the avocado from browning, or you can rub a dab on
of lemon juice across the garden. The assistant to this can be applied to olive oil, or even vinegar.
cut apples or potatoes. I did a completely unscienexperiment was George, who hates me on a regular
tific test, and found the apples with a small amount
day and did not want to cooperate with my shenaniSo, okay, you don’t need lemon juice for this but
of lemon juice rubbed on them lasted about twice as
gans. Eventually I coaxed him over the line by offering maybe you can save on a bit of oil? Maybe you could
long without softening and browning.
my affection, holding out my arms for a hug. He bolted put a bit more in and make lemon flavoured rice? Am
directly across the invisible barrier, so I can only asI clutching at straws here? Listen: if you were makThis is impressive, but I always thought lemon only
sume this is a fail, unless his dislike of lemon was just ing rice incorrectly like I was, use this to pretend you
worked aesthetic magic. Then I tried what I call the
inferior to his desire to get away from me. That's actu- were doing the right thing all along, but now you’ve
‘lettuce reviver’. Soaking wilted lettuce in ice cold
ally not too unlikely, so let's call this plausible.
discovered you prefer using lemon. People will be very water with a tablespoon or so of lemon juice for a halfimpressed.
hour will actually bring it back to crispy life. (Though
Side note: I read a few slices of lemon in kitty litter
nothing beats fresh.)
will stop the stink, and given lemon’s air-freshening
properties, I’d believe it. If they are both true, this is a
So, lemon won’t keep a burger in shape for three
Grade: Pass, 6/10
cruel thing to do to a cat that just wants somewhere
years, but it will make food stay fresh and aestheticalto empty its bowels without fear of citrus.
ly pleasing for a while - say, long enough for a picnic and that's not too shabby at all.

grade: Plausible, 3/10

grade: Pass, 9/10

CONTRACEPTION?
Look, I'm generally happy to take one for the team in
the name of research, but I think we're all a bit too
smart for this one.
It doesn’t matter who tells you Cleopatra used half
a lemon like a citrus-fresh birth control ring and it
worked just fine for her. Although, FYI, I hear she did.
Just don’t do it, because you will get pregnant. And
die.

Grade: Fail, 1/10

how to make
(easy) vegan lemon
sorbet
YOu will need:
1 cup of boiling water
1 cup of brown sugar
1 cup of freshly squeezed lemon juice
Finely grated rind of two lemons
1. In a saucepan, stir the water and sugar until completed melted. Let it all cool down.

Bonus round

2. Add the lemon juice and rind. Don’t worry if the rind is lumpy - it’s meant to be! If you
don’t want any textured pieces, add the rind when melting the sugar and strain before
cooling.

Honourable mentions include half a lemon in the
fridge eating up any bad smells, lemon juice in
the wash brightening your whites, and lemon juice
sprayed on the windowsill helping keep unwanted ant
visitors away. How nifty!

3. Pour the mixture into a plastic tray, and freeze until it’s partly hardened. This can
take up to two hours. Fluff the mixture with a fork or whisk until it’s fluffy, and return to
the freezer until completely frozen.
4. Scoop out the mixture and run it through your food processor or blender until smooth.
This will give it a lovely texture ready for scooping. At this point you can eat it right away
or refreeze.
5. Enjoy! Come on, it’s not too cold for a bit of sorbet, and if it is, wear gloves. Still concerned? Pour a shot of vodka over a scoop or two and stop complaining.

creativity

neu
mantra
E

mily Devers lives to create, collaborate and coexist with those who care
about quality and soul. Her practice ranges from illustration to live painting,
tattoo and photography (on a good day).
Since creating and exhibiting as a Brisbane artist, the content of her work has
been heavily driven by a search for balance. These three works are from the
‘Neu Mantra’ print series, which has been developed from original illustrations.
“I enjoy using black ink on recycled brown paper, because I believe in letting the
simplicity of the materials amplify the content of the design. Each work is developed from traditionally sacred Tibetan symbols, and represents a fragile balance of negative and positive energy”.
Emily is currently working on a number of projects, including an exhibition which
will include recent illustrations, paintings and installations.

You can find her work at www.daily-make.com

culture

yes, virginia
words by anna angel
image by anna birchall

A

s we age, some of us grow
up. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re told this process
involves the draining of imagination and the depletion of wonder.
For many suffering this awful
affliction, it can be cathartic to
stoke the fire of imagination in
younger, less jaded minds.

In 1897, Francis Church, an editor at The New York
Sun, received a letter from an eight-year-old girl with
a simple question. Is there a Santa Claus? He could
easily have ignored the letter, but Church must have
sensed an opportunity to stoke at least one fire. He
replied. Below is an excerpt from the editorial that
ran September 21, 1897.

“… Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa
Claus. He exists as certainly as love
and generosity and devotion exist,
and you know that they abound and
give to your life its highest beauty
and joy.

Alas! How dreary would be the
world if there were no Santa Claus.
It would be as dreary as if there were
no Virginias. There would be no
childlike faith then, no poetry, no
romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight…”
This editorial was as loved as it was subject to its own
sceptics. Doubters wondered how an eight-year-old
could have thought to write such a letter in the first
place. Would a child refer to her playmates as ‘my little friends’, as Virginia did?

It hardly matters, but most doubts were quashed
when Virginia O’Hanlon stepped forward as the author.
What matters is the effect it had on readers. How
touching it is to know a small statement – even a lie
– could reinstate the status of the world as an inherently good place for one impressionable mind. While
this is a matter of childhood wonder and faith, it is not
necessarily a matter of religion. Regardless of personal belief, every one of us needs to be playful sometimes, and to engage in a bit of make-believe.
Virginia went on to become a teacher and a school
principal, before passing on in 1971. Her letter and
Church’s response form a legacy that’s still felt well
over a century later. Why does this particular untruth
hold so much value? It is not just an issue of whether
or not there’s a Santa Claus. If there were a Santa
Claus, just think what else might be possible.

community

Caloundra
house
Russell and Rosalie Gale tell
Anna Angel about their life running a unique art venture on the
Sunshine Coast.

R

osalie and Russell Gale share a lifelong love of art and collectables, gardening, and
good food and wine. They combined their passions when they opened an art gallery
with homemade dining, vineyard area and cottage garden on site in December of last year.
Caloundra House is tucked neatly away from the main drag of the Sunshine Coast city itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s
named for. You enter through the front garden, taking in the greenery and most likely bumping into the artist-in-residence. Their model sees artists work on site during their exhibition
period and manage their own sales, allowing for a face-to-face connection between buyer
and artist.

Indeed, the space feels closer to the hills of Maleny,
in the Sunshine Coast’s hinterland, than it does to the
busy beach front. The pair put a whole lot of love into
the space every day to keep the cogs turning; they
do all the gardening, cooking, service, and general
back-end business themselves. The hard work doesn’t
They’ve hosted interstate and international artists, but seem to put a damper on their spirits. As a visitor, you
Caloundra House primarily aims to promote local art. feel like you’ve stepped into the garden of a friendThe pair believe the local art scene is chasing the tail of-a-friend. No question is too small and no smile left
of Australia’s better-known art hubs. “The Queensland unreturned.
art scene is still growing and very active, although it
doesn’t have the depth of Melbourne or Sydney,” Rosalie says.
“With many artists moving to the Sunshine Coast for
the climate and the tourist development over recent
years, Queensland is quickly catching up and will be
able to stand against the best.”

Russell studied art “back when boys weren’t supposed to paint”, and has previously owned farms and
vineyards. This background stoked a love of quality
food and wine. Rosalie worked on the remote Elcho
On a visit, you might find craft or woodwork, sculpture, Island for over five years within the mobile health service. Both have developed personal collections of art
painting or photography gracing the walls. While the
and other collectables.
artists rotate on a flexible schedule, what will never
change is the offering of simple, good quality food and
wine. The Gales use recipes from their grandmother’s Ultimately, it’s a strong sense of community that
makes them so dedicated to promoting all the things
era, and serve vineyard fare using produce they’ve
they love –good old-fashioned food, the local art
sourced fresh.
scene, and terrific service – in their area. So if you’re
“The concept is unique in Queensland, if not Australia ever in Caloundra and decide to head to ‘the local’
after a swim, perhaps forgo the pub and check out a
in a CBD area,” Rosalie says.
truly local affair.

Life in a nutshell

The best things in life are: a passion
for the garden and all things beautiful, life,
good friends, good food, good wine, sharing it all with other people. We never really
own anything, only have it on loan to make
the world into a better place. We enjoy
sharing our garden, home and food with
others.
What the world needs now is: love (to
use the Beatles’ terminology) and plenty of
it, coupled with honesty, passion and understanding.

creativity

night lights
images by Kyle Pearson

â&#x20AC;&#x153;These works are an experimentation within the photographic
medium, and the plethora of opportunities the interaction of
the lens and light affords. Utilizing long exposures and varied
light sources, I control the light as much as possible to generate
new images and realities that only exist once the shutter closes.
These final images allow me to effectively control exactly what
the viewer sees.â&#x20AC;?

www.kyle-lanky-pearson.tumblr.com

community

Sunnybank
By Kaya RA Edwards

W

hen my Taiwanese friend Chapei first gushed that Sunnybank was “the
most awesome place” and did I want to come next Sunday, I said yes, not
knowing what I was in for and picturing some Lynchian suburb of manicured
lawns and, hopefully, something else more exciting.
It was definitely more exciting, and my failure to recognise the name ‘Sunnybank’ is tribute to the fact I am a newcomer to the city of Brisbane: most locals
will recognise the cheerful name given to this southern suburb where, according to journalist Tony Moore, the population is made up of Taiwanese and mainland Chinese migrants. Sunnybank has a somewhat iconic status in Brisbane
as an example of the best Asian-Australian collaboration has to offer, and it
stands in the eyes of many as testament to the kind of all-embracing society
and diverse culture we can aim for in Australia.

I was surprised to find somewhere that resonated so
similarly with memories of my Asian travels, as my
unnybank is largely regarded to be Brisbane’s
primary experience of Asian culture in Australia had
‘true Chinatown’ – its main shopping mall, Sunny- been framed by the Westernised ‘packaged-culturebank Plaza, representing for locals and visitors alike, experience’ offered by such tourist-traps as the Chinaa more contemporary vision of authentic Asian culture towns in Sydney and Melbourne.
than Fortitude Valley’s Chinatown which was built in
1987. Chinatown possesses a somewhat stereotyped
aesthetic (complete with pagodas and giant stylised
archways) that caters to a romanticised Western ideal
of Asia. Comparatively, David Ip of the University of
Queensland believes “... new Chinese settlement in
the Sunnybank district of Brisbane employs almost
none of the clichéd, and of course contemporaneously vacuous notions of ‘the East’ which historically
circulated in the West”.

S

I recognised this authenticity when visiting Sunnybank
Plaza as it was, for me, refreshingly familiar; I recalled
the malls in Thailand I regularly visited to escape the
raging Bangkok sun in early 2010. I visited Sunnybank
with four friends, and we experienced almost-tropical
heat before slinking past a popular ramen shop and
people happily munching on Mos Burgers (of the
famed Japanese franchise) and into the icy air conditioning of the mall. The occasional Coles or Hoyts dotted between displays of Chinese pottery and steaming
pork buns were some of the only things to remind me
I was still in Australia.

By looking at the recent history of Asian cultural presence in Brisbane, however, we can see how racial acceptance has improved and a more inclusive and colourful multicultural society has been strived towards.
In the 1880s, community paranoia about the influx of
hard-working Chinese immigrants fostered a view of
them as ‘job stealers’, while oppression
was practiced against
them on social and
governmental levels,
according to one paper by David Ip. Then
in WWII, American GIs
situated in Brisbane
began to request
previously-denigrated
Asian food.
As Ip has documented, the process of GIs
introducing Asian food
to their Australian
girlfriends and mistresses then filtered
into the community
to create a general
broader acceptance
of Asian presence in
Australia.

In contrast to the thriving Asian community I observed
a slice of whilst munching on a takeaway container
of seasoned rice, chilli pickled cabbage, crispy chicken and a tea egg, until the 1980s Brisbane’s Asian
population was fairly small. It was only in 1972 that
Australia’s Labor Party swept into power to tentatively introduce the first immigration quota from Asia.
Four years later, the first ‘boat people’ from Vietnam
reached Australia and in 1988 journalist Russell
Spurr wrote “things have not been the same since”.
Asian culture has continued to swell Down Under with
over eight per cent of our population today being of
Asian descent, and locally, south Brisbane bears the
fruit of this climb towards a hopefully eventual cultural utopia. Chinese since the 1980s especially “...
brought with them ideas, skills and capital to initiate
certain impetus to reshaping (sub)-urban forms” (David Ip).

“My primary experience of Asian culture in
Australia had been framed by the Westernised ‘packaged-culture-experience’ offered by
such tourist-traps as the Chinatowns in Sydney and Melbourne”

I

n my mind, the road to a more multicultural society
is paved with curiosity and fear of the unknown, but
paired with a willingness to have expectations and
opinions challenged. In Growing Up Asian in Australia,
a collective work by Asian-Australians, Francis Lee
recounts being a schoolboy in his autobiographical
piece ‘The Upside Down Year’. He recalls the fear he
felt about Australia, a place where “... winter became
summer … they kicked a ball in the shape of an olive
and threw a stick that came back … a real upsidedown world.” I can relate to that sense of cultural
dissonance on a shallower level; my friends and I
followed that distinct smell of bamboo pickles into
an Asian supermarket where the narrow aisles and
shelves boasted lotus roots, tinned quail eggs, and
sour plum candy. At six feet tall I felt in-the-way and
confused by the strange items on display, but then
this was what I came for – to see something new, to
partake in a culture that was not my own but is so
generously offered as a part of the wider community
of Brisbane I now belong to.
I purchased a block of radish cake from the cashier
who greeted me with ‘ni hao’ without looking up; this,
for me, really drove home the idea of Sunnybank as a
slice of authentic Asia, where Western tourism is not
the catered-for demographic.

Trekking back through the mall we stopped at ‘Papa’s
Pancake’ where a greying old man cooked us small
cakes filled with sweet taro and custard. His daughter
served us and I asked her where they had learnt to
make the ‘che lun bing’. She conferred with her father
in Mandarin before telling me, “Papa learnt in Taiwan”. He nodded astutely, still cooking, while the girl
and I shared a smile in recognition of the stereotypical seriousness of his older generation. In that moment, she became the bridge between my culture and
his, and remembering it, I think of author Alice Pung’s
words: “Usually, it is the second generation that accumulates enough cultural capital to be able to put their
parent’s experiences’ into words.”
And so it is like this, generation by generation, we progressively move ever-closer to a more all-embracing
and culturally diverse Brisbane. Sunnybank concentrates a selection of Asian cultures that contribute
to Brisbane’s growing multiculturalism. After all, as
recognised by authors James Jupp and John Nieuwenhuysen, “Australia is amongst the most cohesive
and harmonious societies on earth, based on stable
institutions, high living standards, economic expansion and isolation from zones of conflict”. What better
place for communities such as Sunnybank’s to thrive
and contribute to the evolution of culture?

culture

watch the

world burn
Lauren Payne and Anna angel
check out some classic apocalyptic film offerings and report their
findings just in time to save the
planet, or at least your boredom.

Dr. Strangelove: or How I Learnt To
Stop Worrying And Love The Bomb (1964)
Director: Stanley Kubrick

Mars Attacks! (1996)

La JetEe (1962)
Director: Chris Marker

Director: Tim Burton

It’ll only take you 28 bleak minutes to watch this simply produced French post-apocalyptic film. You’ll be
A film doesn’t have to be political to resonate, and it
Mars Attacks! is pretty self-explanatory. Aliens from
glad you did, because it paved the way for respectively
doesn’t need to be clever to be entertaining, though it Mars attack Earth.
two of the most acclaimed and grossing Hollywood
certainly helps create a classic on the scale of Stanley This is not your regular Tim Burton film. When you
Kubrick’s satirical masterpiece. What this piece does think of a Burton film, you probably think of macabre films: 12 Monkeys and The Terminator.
Here, shown almost entirely in still black-and-white
so well – what any good apocalypse story will do – is
humour and outrageous sets and costumes. Mars
tap into real anxieties, unravelling them before our
Attacks! is actually very bright, but I will say there are photos, humankind is forced to live underground after
a devastating nuclear war. Scientists experiment with
eyes. Kubrick explored Cold War era fears of what the some elaborate costumes (Sarah Jessica Parker’s
hydrogen bomb could mean for humanity in a very
silver hoop dress). Jack Nicholson plays the US Presi- time travel, with the aim of sending subjects to different time periods that may hold the key to humanity’s
dark, hugely funny way.
dent, and though he tries his best to make peace
survival in the present. This piece has a jarring and
The longevity of Dr Strangelove, many decades afwith the aliens, they seem set on destruction. The
emotive end, and is a must-watch for all apocalypse
ter such terrors were all but forgotten, is no doubt
language barrier is definitely no help. As the film progenre fans.
equally attributed to quality comic performances and gresses, main characters are killed by the aliens, so
Terry Gilliam states explicitly his much-loved 1995
the timelessly sharp script provided by Kubrick, Terry we don’t develop much of an emotional connection,
Southern and Peter George. Peter Sellers took on
meaning their deaths don’t really affect the audience. sci-fi 12 Monkeys borrowed its core concepts from La
Jetée, but most people still seem to overlook the fact
three leading roles, nailing the tone of each character It’s surprising though, that one of the survivors turns
the studio bought the rights to recreate it as a fulland arguably defining his spot as one of the greatest out to be (spoiler) Tom Jones. Yes, I said Tom Jones.
length film. This doesn’t diminish 12 Monkeys at all,
comedic talents of the century.
It’s a very light hearted film and definitely makes fun
really, and how can it when Brad Pitt and Bruce Willis
Here we find hapless world leaders, egos the size of
of the idea of an alien invasion.
are key players? Given the new special effect techRussia and the now iconic ‘Doomsday Machine’ playnologies, and the extra time to develop the story, it’s
ing against each other in the world’s greatest waiting Type of Apocalypse: Aliens attack Earth.
a well-deserved classic in its own right. 12 Monkeys
game. The violent and often sexual humour may suck- Plausibility: This is very unlikely to happen but who
er punch you, but this is no cheap shot. Nuclear anni- knows if aliens really exist? They may not be on Mars, has an effectively enigmatic ending all of its own –
just look number of hits for ’12 Monkeys ending’ on
hilation has never been so funny, and it may never be but there are still many planets yet to be explored.
Google.
again.
LP
Type of Apocalypse: Nuclear war in La Jetée, virus in
Type of apocalypse: nuclear warfare, ‘Doomsday
12 Monkeys.
Machine’
Plausibility: Both are somewhat believable.
Plausibility: Relatively high (in comparison to zombies). That’s what made it so effective.

AA
AA

On The Beach (1959)

Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1978)

Director: Stanley Kramer
When On the Beach begins, fans of Banjo Paterson
and Australiana will feel a sense of pride as Waltzing
Matilda opens a film featuring Fred Astaire. Everybody
loves Fred Astaire!
On the Beach is set in Melbourne and centres on
young navy Lieutenant Peter Holmes (Astaire) and his
very new work colleague, Dwight Lionel Towers (Mr
Gregory Peck).
Towers has landed his submarine on Australian
shores because there is a radioactive gas cloud –
which killed his family – engulfing the Northern Hemisphere. Holmes becomes worried his family will be
affected, leaving him with a horrible choice: either
protect them by forcing them to kill themselves once
the radiation hits, or stay with them and die an excruciating death.
Aside from the depressing plot, the movie is actually quite funny. Classic Australian humour features
throughout the movie, and it offers a good chance to
crack up at the many British and American actors attempting to imitate Aussie accents.

The Night of the Living Dead (1968)
Director: George A. Romero

Director: Philip Kaufman

We’re not going to debate zombie movie fanatics by
calling this low-budget cult classic the best zombie
Matthew Bennel works at the Health Department in
apocalypse film of all time, but we can safely call it
San Francisco. He’s in love with his co-worker Elizathe ‘original’. Radiation causes the dead to reanimate
beth (Brooke Adams) but unfortunately for him, she
and even being an All-American good kid can’t save
has a boyfriend. Once the boyfriend begins acting
you, in this $100,000 production. The gore was so
strangely, Elizabeth seeks out Matthew to see if he
explicit for the age that it was lumped in with a wave
can tell her what’s happening to him. There’s your
of exploitation films being made at the time, but when
chance to be a hero, Matt!
re-released a year later, the film began gaining tracInvasion of the Body Snatchers is an eerie film betion. Whether it was the use of unknown actors, a
cause instead of the aliens flying to Earth in large
stark and realistic black-and-white filming style, or just
shiny spaceships, they invade you from within. When
Jack Bellicec (Jeff Goldblum) discovers a presumably the close ups of zombies eating guts and limbs; something struck a nerve. The undead are now a big busidead body on one of his wife’s massage tables, we
ness, and we can thank Romero for bringing them into
discover something otherworldly is happening.
This is a remake of the 1956 original, which I applaud the mainstream.
The trilogy this film spawned makes for an interesting
for the originality of its wonderful twist ending. The
only thing I would change would be Matthew’s roman- movie marathon. You bring the radiation (lime) punch;
tic timing. You don’t kiss a girl when she’s scared and I’ll bring the eyeballs (gobstoppers). If you don’t think
you can sit through that much, at least watch the truly
hiding in a closet! That’s just plain silly.
horrific, spectacularly solid second offering: 1978’s
Dawn of the Dead. The sequel ignores the massive
time lapse, and kicks off only a few months after the
Type of Apocalypse: Aliens duplicating humans into
original ends. Bonus round: cheesy spin off Children
emotionless entities.
Type of Apocalypse: A large gas cloud poisons the air Plausibility: Just because they didn’t arrive in space of the Living Dead (2001).
and makes us breathe in toxins.
ships doesn’t mean they still can’t get to us. Be afraid,
Plausibility: After recent events involving nuclear
Type of Apocalypse: Zombie.
be very afraid.
power plants, I think the film is plausible even if some
Plausibility: If it wasn’t possible, why did the idea
scientists may disagree.
become so popular in Hollywood?
LP
LP

AA

Idiocracy (2005)
Director: Mike Judge
Painfully average army officer Joe, and prostitute Rita
are frozen in time in a Human Hibernation Experiment. They were only supposed to be frozen for a year,
but after the officer running the operation is arrested,
the pair instead awake 500 years in the future.
In this film, the future looks bleak, as the human race
has become less intelligent, ignorant and lazy. We live
in a world filled with mountains of garbage and our
doctors are too simple to treat the diseases we are
likely to contract.
In this time, humans can only understand slang
terms, so when Joe tries to communicate with people,
they canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t understand him. The apocalypse does not
actually happen in this film, but because of the state
of the earth, you know itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not far off. The movie itself
relies on a lot of toilet humour (think Beavis and ButtHead) but aside from that, it shows what might actually happen if the human race becomes too lazy to go
to school and put rubbish in the bin.
Type of Apocalypse: Man becomes dumber and lazier, until our planet is buried under mountains of rubbish and we will likely all die from disease.
Plausibility: This actually could happen. Everybody
freak out!

lp

creativity

from
where
Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d rather
be
images by Rachela Nardella

www.symphonyofcolours.blogspot.com

culture

Travel to the

end of the
world
by anna angel

I

t may not be likely the abrupt end of the ancient Maya calendar actually signals our forthcoming demise, but itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s interesting to think about. Would you
really be that surprised? There are no less than three Friday the 13ths this
year. How unlucky can we get and still survive?
We sure love to ruminate on our grand exit. How would it happen, would it hurt,
and would we all look as gorgeous as Kristin Dunst and Charlotte Gainsbourg
in Melancholia as we go toward the light? If we can fantasize about end times,
surely we can also aspire to watch the world crumble from a dream location.
Here are our top picks for end-of-the-world travel. You can use the possibility
of an apocalypse as an excuse to blow those savings on a last minute plane
ticket, or just dream on with the rest of us.

rotorua and taupo

W

e normally don’t like to add fuel to fires, but as
we approach the end, we all get a little reckless,
don’t we? A number of doomsday predictions in recent times -- most of which were from Family Radio’s
Harold Camping -- have cited New Zealand as the first
place to go bang. We don’t know what they did to deserve the earliest wrath, but if you’re going to go up in
a storm of flames and blood you may as well be able
to say you did it first.
Even if our neighbours didn’t go down first, the geothermal activity in areas like Rotorua would make for
a wonderfully majestic final sight. The earth simmers
and hisses like a cauldron below you, the steam rises
and one of nature’s greatest curiosities is on display.
The air smells mineral where the forces are active,
and steam pools, geysers, mud pools and beautiful
lakes formed from thousands of years of volcanic activity provide a suitably overwhelming visual.
This is a breath-taking experience on an ordinary day,
and the landscape will leave you impressed by the
inner turmoil and tremendous pressure of the ground
we stand on.

If you’re not yet convinced this is the hottest (oh yes,
we went there) place to watch it all burn, consider one
of Rotorua’s best known and most savage geothermal
areas, which goes by the name of Tikitere, or Hell’s
Gate. This sacred Maori site, home to the largest hot
waterfall in the Southern Hemisphere, is perfect for
those under no illusions of getting in with the big guy.
You only have to travel minutes from the centre of
Rotorua to catch the action, and there are a few other
spots you can safely get up close. In Wai-O-Tapu you
can take in the striking colours of the ‘champagne
pool’ (previous page) and in Taupo you can walk the
Craters of the Moon - abound with fascinating mud
craters.
The unique geothermal properties of the mineral
water and mud have long been harnessed for their
health benefits within Maori culture. Most of the top
five geothermal areas in New Zealand will have spas
where visitors can soak and scrub in the naturally
heated water, or cleanse with mineral-rich mud. So instead of stressing over all the horrible things that are
bound to ensure, why not treat yourself one last time?
You deserve it.
We think it might be just as invigorating to see these
wonders with your own two eyes. If you’d prefer to go
out with a bit of adventure, perhaps consider bungy
jumping in Lake Taupo, or taking on the Kawarau
Bridge jump. If a crazy jump or sky dive is something
you’ve always said you’d do one day, why not save it
for your last? The landscape might be picturesque,
but it’ll be all the more beautiful for your screaming.

machu picchu

C

onsidering the Inca ruins of Machu Picchu stand
2,430 metres above sea level, it’s hard to believe
the site was only known locally until it was ‘discovered’ in 1911. How American Hiram Bingham could
claim to have discovered something that was already
known to many Peruvians is beyond me, but let’s say
he ‘shared it with the outside world’. The construction
of Machu Picchu began in the 15th century. Much
restoration work has been completed over the last
century, but it’s clear the site was abandoned before
completion (believed to be thanks to the Spanish
Conquest).

The exact purpose of the estate is unknown, though
archeologists believe it might have been an estate for
the then Inca emperor, Pachacuti or a kind of mountain getaway for upper class Incas.

Many scientists and conservationists have expressed
concerns that continued interest has put the site in
This UNESCO World Heritage Site, in the Cusco region a compromised position. It’s hard to know how much
of Peru, is certainly deserving of the mounting tourist longer the structures can withstand the pressure of
interest that’s been heaped on it in recent years. The thousands of curious visitors. Machu Picchu could
site is awe-inspiring architecturally and culturally, and suffer similar degradation to other heritage sites - bethe surrounding mountainous forest doesn’t hurt,
ing loved to death. We’re certainly saddened that
either. The actual size of the estate is hard to grasp
tourism has seen the surrounding areas built up with
for those who haven’t seen it - there are over 140
resorts, restaurants, and even helicopter pads, but
stonework structures remaining, set in distinct quarit’s natural to want to see something so mysterious.
ters. Most of our attention is heaped on the Spiritual How did the Incas construct these buildings on such a
District. There you’ll find the Intihuatana Stone, which steep terrain? Was the Temple of the Condor really a
works as a sun dial, the Temple of the Sun and the
place of worship, or one of torture?
Room of the Three Windows.

If the world was to end come December, you could
trek through the ruins without any guilt of contributing
to structural pressure. Hooray! Even if it didn’t, there
are measures in place to ensure we don’t leave too
large a footprint on this wondrous site. For example,
local Government has put a cap on the number of visitors allowed through each day, though at 2,500, it’s
not exactly exclusive.
Imagine trekking the Inca Trail (a four day trip), and
arriving at the Sun Gate to watch the sun set on
the Earth as we know it. Alternatively, it’s a (steep)
one-and-a-half hour walk from Aguas Calientes, with
regular bus shuttles available. Before human history is wiped out forever, discover our amazing past.
You might even find yourself wondering if these relics
could even survive the apocalypse. Here’s hoping.

chase the aurora borealis

T

he aurora borealis, or the northern lights, present
a spectacular phenomenon whenever they come
out to play. The 2012/13 winter season is predicted
to bring especially intense light shows, as the elevenyear sun cycle reaches its peak.
This all means that if you’ve always wanted to catch
the lights, now is the best time unless you fancy waiting another decade or so. And who knows if you’ll
even be around then? Okay, the peak will last a couple of years, but don’t you want to be spontaneous?
These auroras are caused by the collision of atoms
and energy-charged particles, and occur in the ‘auroral zone’, or 10 to 20 degrees from a magnetic pole.
Unscientifically speaking, this occurrence causes
green, pinkish or red lights to appear on the horizon.
Very unscientifically speaking, they are truly mystical.
It’s always a gamble when you set out to chase the
lights. Most tours won’t guarantee a sighting, but if
you go at the right time and the right place, you can
definitely increase your odds. Let’s start with the
place. Prime viewing is yours to be had across Scandinavia, Greenland, Iceland, Canada, Siberia and
Alaska.

Arguably two of the best spots are Tromsø, Norway,
and Kangerlussuaq, Greenland. When observing from
Kangerlussuaq, you have a 99 per cent chance of a
light show between November and March. From most
observation areas, there’s a good chance of catching
them anytime between September and March, from
roughly six pm to one am.
Tromsø is one of the most easily accessible observation points, but Jukkasjärvi in Sweden is home to the
first Ice Hotel, which is pretty damn cool (he he he).
Depending on your budget, you can join a photography tour travelling across multiple sites, or one that

will provide you with a buzzer to let you know the aurora borealis is a go. Even doing this on the cheap is a
sure-fire way to bring your existence to a fitting climax.
If you’re really short on cash you can take in a similarly breathtaking show from the aurora australis - the
southern lights. These lights come from the South
Pole, and we’re lucky enough to be able to observe
them in Tasmania and some areas of NSW. While
rather infrequent, there is an alert service available.
Who knows? We might be treated to them as a parting gift.

maya trail

P

erforming any investigation at all into the Maya
long count calendar that supposedly predicts our
doom will reveal it doesn’t end, at all. The calendar
merely moves into a new cycle – like the turn of the
millennium. The truth here is much more boring than
the idea of a lunar cycle prophecy thousands of years
in the making. Luckily, it’s about the least interesting
thing about the Maya civilisation.

History fanatics might want to celebrate our probable
continued existence by seeing first hand where and
how this rich and diverse ancient culture (that didn’t
at all think we were going to cease living) lived. There
is bound to be a bit of activity at Maya sites like Chichén Itzá on December 21, when the calendar supposedly ends.

To get the most Maya for your moolah, you’ll want to
head to Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula. Home to shirtless holidaymakers chasing the alcoholic’s resort
lifestyle in Cancún, there’s an abundance of natural
There might be a party; there may even be some
beauty and the echoes of the Old World here, still.
nerves and some shrieking. My guess is there will be Perhaps the most famous of all Maya relics is Chichén
more curious amateur historians than doomsayers,
Itzá (pictured). The ‘time temples’ found here are
though. Hopefully.
fascinating and wonderfully telling of the astronomical advancements of this civilisation. Expect a crowd:
If you really have a sense of comedic timing, you
this is one of the seven wonders of the modern world,
might like to visit on December 22, just to rub it in the after all. Slightly less busy, but every bit as wondrous
faces of those who were adamant the end was nigh.
is the ancient city of Calakmul. The ‘Snake Kingdom’
was vast, prosperous and archeologically

advanced. Home to multiple pyramids, and a myriad
of other buildings – many of which are still being restored – the site is often hailed as the grandest of
all Maya discoveries. Better still, these ruins are surrounded by lush rainforest and home to an array of
wildlife. Archaeologists have discovered many relics,
jewels and curiosities at Calakmul, some of which are
now on display in the Yucatán city of Campeche. There
are too many Maya sites of note to list here (across
Mexico, Guatemala, Belize and El Salvador) but the
dedicated can join tour groups that snake their way
across the civilisation’s unbelievable reach.

community

star light,
star bright,
first star i see tonight ...
by anna angel

T

he universe (multiverse?) is immense, wondrous, and
often breathtaking. A telescope in the hands of a child
becomes a pathway to an imagined world of aliens and
chrome-coloured futures. But hereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the secret: the wonder never truly goes away. We might stop expecting to see
little green men when we point our telescopes skyward,
but what you can see will have you falling in love with the
vast expanse.

A

stronomy can be discarded as something too technical, challenging or even boring for the average
sky gazer. The equipment is expensive and it takes
time to learn the ropes. The whole field can seem a bit
esoteric at first, but there’s really no need to be shy.
Many astronomy clubs across Australia and the rest
of the world open their doors to dabblers. You don’t
need a telescope, and there are passionate amateur
astronomers more than willing to show you the tricks
of the trade over a steaming cup of coffee.
A great launching point is to check out your local
amateur astronomy group. If you’re not sure if it’s for
you, wait for a public observation night, or visit a planetarium for a cheap (most likely free) way to test the
waters.

Sydney Observatory is a brilliant facility where New
South Welshmen can watch the skies any night of
the week, but it’s best to check out their monthly Sky
Guide beforehand, to aid your excursion. In Victoria,
the Mornington Peninsula Astronomical Society holds
public viewing nights for only a few gold coins on the
first Friday of each month, and the Astronomical Society of Melbourne is so welcoming to beginners that
they call themselves ‘Australia’s friendliest Astronomical Society’.

Get out into the night air, look up, and you’ll see this
isn’t a closed field. When you strip it down, the field of
astronomy is just inquisitive-minded dreamers coming
together to take in the bigger picture. It has a history
as long as ours, and a place in almost every culture.
Many of Australia’s Aboriginal cultures had a strong
Brisbane Astronomical Society holds free observarelationship with astronomy, which you can read more
tions at Mt Coot-tha each month, on the Saturday
about here. With only our bare eyes, we can find the
closest to the First Quarter Moon. The specific dates
are on their website. Given the viewing from Mt Coot- man in the moon, the emu in the sky or the canoe
tha is spectacular even without 20/20 vision, you’ll be over Orion.
in for quite a treat. The Astronomical Society of Tasmania holds an open night twice a year, with observa- … I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish
tions and the chance to chat to leading astronomers. tonight.
For keener observers, they run an annual introductory
astronomy course over three nights. The next course
is tentatively set to run over three nights in October,
and is open to complete beginners.

Make do

donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get cross,

stitch
by anna angel

O

n the days where even the sound of your partner’s chewing
makes your blood boil; on the days when you get a speeding fine meant for someone else; the days when your family asks
where your life is going, how do you get through it? I work through
the anger one stitch at a time. Recently, I created a cross stitch
tapestry to swear off unwelcome home invaders, dedicating one
stitch to each customer I’d ever wanted to flip the metaphorical
bird to during my time in retail. You can stitch a simple swear
word or embroider a crude gesture, if that will make you feel better. And it will. There’s no better catharsis for The World is Out
to Get Me Syndrome than perverting a ladylike crafting tradition
until it has a potty mouth and a tongue in cheek.

Cross stitch is a craft after my own heart – once you get the
hang of it, it’s like playing connect the dots or paint-by-numbers,
and a lot simpler to pick up than some of those shmancier,
more heavy duty crafts. (I’m looking at you, quilting!)

No one knows this better than Julie Jackson, who began Subversive Cross Stitch after she found the perfect escape from her
boss – stitching an f-bomb smack in the middle of a delicate
cross stitch creation. If you think you might be a candidate for
some stress relieving crafty goodness, you can download Jackson’s PDF prints here, or buy kits with instructions. I used her
‘Get Lost’ pattern and embellished with my own touches and
rookie errors, just to make the sign especially (un)welcoming.

You can even turn your own designs and photos into cross stitch
patterns for free online, so you really have no excuse not to get
stitching. Unless you’d rather just take to a punching bag. That’s
fine, too.

If you’re not harbouring much anger at all (and good for you) I
bet your walls could still use some kitsch. Another fantastic resource for those who have mastered the art – and anyone willing
it give it a red-hot go – is Antique Pattern Library. This vast collection houses free scans of some divine designs for all kinds of
pattern work. There’s art deco and floral, lace and German oddities.

Make do

How to make a scarf,
Mittens and beanie ...

from an old jumper

T

his is an super easy winter project for those
who canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t bear to throw out cuddly, cosy
jumpers that have seen better days. Instead of
being left out in the cold when you part ways,
simply redistribute the warmth. You can get one
beanie, two mittens and a loop scarf from most
adult jumpers. Winter crafting has never been
so accessible to those who canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t knit. Reclaim
the season from the clicking needle clutches of
yarn bombing and tea-cosy making; this is your
time!*

You will need:

For the scarf:

This will make a loop scarf, and can be as thick as you
One old jumper. Anything will do, but something with a
like. (Okay, it’s limited also by the size of the jumper,
pattern or cable knit is best.
but we’ve got a fix for that!)
Scissors
Needle and thread or a sewing machine
1. Cut the arms off the jumper and set them aside.
Additional: 30 cm of elastic, ribbon for decoration

For the beanie:
This is where a cable knit design on the bottom of the
jumper comes in handy.
1. You can either grab another beanie and rip off
the measurements or guesstimate at the size of your
noggin. Cut a matching half circle an inch larger than
your decided measurements from both sides of the
jumper, using the bottom of the jumper as the beanie
rim.
2. Place the pieces together with the outsides facing in. Stitch around the edges and flip.
3. You can add a few stitches to hold the rim up
and add a contrasting ribbon, or just wear it in a classic style. Go crazy with your bad beanied self!

2. Assess what’s left. Even after taking out a beanie-sized chunk, you should still have a band of material from the waist and chest area.
3. Cut a rectangular shape across the middle,
keeping both sides of the jumper together. Stitch
around the cut edges.
4. If your jumper was small, you might not have
enough to form a bulky loop scarf. In which case, copy
the above steps then cut open one of the side seams.
Cross one length over the other so it forms a ‘x’
shape, and stitch together in the middle. Affix a button, flower, pom pom or anything else you can think of
over the stitch.

For the mittens:
This is our favourite part. You’re going to want those
sleeves you set aside earlier.
1. Starting from the edge of the sleeve, assess how
long you want your mittens to be. Here comes the fun
part: turn the sleeve inside out and place your hand
(and whatever part of your arm you want to be covered in mitten warmth) on the sleeve. Draw around it,
leaving half an inch of extra wiggle room. Repeat on
the other sleeve.
2. Cut around the mitten shape, leaving an inch all
around. Stitch along the edges taking care on the fiddly thumb area.
3. Flip the material the right way around and try it
on. If you find the bottom sleeve of the jumper was
stretched, it might slide down. In this case, you’ll need
to stitch a band of elastic to the inside to keep it nice
and tight. If your stitching shows through, simply stitch
a ribbon on the outside to cover it up. No one will ever
know!

You don’t have to make all three (or any of them – we’re not craft dictators), but if you do, please send us a
picture of you wearing them all together so we can coo over your matched set. Especially if you make a miniature version for a child. That would almost be too much. Please don’t send pictures of that.
* Winter will probably always remain a time for knitting, no matter how hard we try to be included in the fun.
We don’t resent this fact as much as it probably now seems we do.

Kitchen

Life on the shelf
Gin

Rum

Began as:

began as:

Gin got its start as an ineffective remedy for the Black Death,
and similar concoctions were sold to cure all kinds of ailments. The spirit went on to build a sour reputation for itself
in London as a killer, life ruiner, abortionist, and lowlife, before being prohibited, and eventually regulated.

Rum has a long history as a trade product on seemingly every
quarter of the world, even in Australia. The drink was a prized
possession in Colonial New South Wales, and well, we haven't
stopped since.

Made with:

Made with:

Ethyl alcohol, juniper berries.

Sugarcane by products, molasses, ageing.

Allegedly Drunk by:

Allegedly Drunk by:

Humphrey Bogart, Frank Sinatra, F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Earnest Hemingway, drunken sailors.

Goes with:

Goes with:

Lime, cucumber, tonic, dry vermouth.

Also Known as:
Motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Ruin.

Lime, pineapple juice and coconut cream, a peg leg.

Also Known As:
Barbados Water, Kill Devil.

Tequila

Vodka

Whisky/whiskey

Began as:

Began as:

Began as:

A new take on Aztec traditions, tequila became the first factory product to be made in the state now known as Jalisco,
in the 1600s. Mexican laws specify restricted areas that can
officially claim to produce tequila.

The origins of vodka are contentious, and we don't want to upset anyone. Let's just say it's another spirit that was used, in a
less alcoholic state, as a medicine. It was a Polish or Russian
creation that was never meant to be flavoured ‘peanut butter
and jelly’.

It was a happy accident whisk(e)y evolved from the raw drink
it once was to the refined spirit we know today - the miracles
of the ageing process were allegedly discovered by someone
desperate enough for a drink to try a long-forgotten brew.

Made with:

Made with:
Made with:

Distilled blue agave.

Ethyl alcohol, water, grains, potatoes or fruits.

Fermented grain aged in a wooden barrel.

Allegedly Drunk by:

Allegedly Drunk by:

Allegedly Drunk by:

Jack Keroac.

Truman Capote.

William Faulkner.

Goes with:

Goes with:

Goes with:

Lime and salt, itself.

Itself, mostly anything else.

Coffee, cola, mint, sweet vermouth.

Also KNOWN AS:

Also Known as:

Also Known As:

Nothing, if it's real tequila.

Water of Life.

There’s enough debate surrounding the spelling without confusing it even further.

had never read Jorge Luis Borges’s Book of Imaginary Beings,
a book-length publication omitted in my Collected Fictions
edition. However, I understood — as gut reaction or whim, and
testament to the veracity of Borges’s imagined creatures — the
Fauna of Mirrors. I had glimpsed the Fish of the Mirror before it
was described to me. It was a shard of ice in my glass, a boorish metaphor in my mind.
You grab a jug of water pushed back in the fridge, skirting the
edge is a length of ice that barely juts against the liquid. It
doesn’t stick in your mind. The ice disappears completely into
the whole, cool drink. The opposite happened to me. The ice
was there, and each glass I poured seemed to carry a shard.
Jorge Luis Borges is following me. I don’t know which of us has
given chase. I know he is there and I know I am right to acknowledge it.
Someone I love explained it to me. Once you acknowledge
something it becomes uncanny — that is, it keeps appearing
(reappears). Whatever it is you’ve acknowledged might have
appeared anyway but this time it sticks. The Fish of the Mirror, Borges says, will be the first to appear, to betray depth in
our hitherto innocuous, utilitarian mirrors. The Fish — so called
because it will glimmer and flit, briefly — will add an irrevocable
dimension to our reflections. The same can be said of ‘coincidence’: moments that jar our ordinary, linear lives. All of a sudden something becomes a seed. Jorge Luis Borges has come to
sow seeds in my mind; he himself has become the sunset that
pushes itself into the ocean and harkens return. Borges was a
prolific thinker, therefore he’s a threat to the barely conscious
— subconscious, even (I’ve found) — things we understand: the
many predicaments that are life, and that take from it in equal
measure.

I guess I’m more inclined to these repetitions than most people. Most people are more measured than me; their minds are
like a city from ground level, where every street and sidewalk
ends but not perceptibly so. My mind, I think, is a coiled spring
with bends wrought to a circumference, and all the unseen energy of that struggle. Seen from above a spring is circular and
pointless (unlike the others’ cities). These circles, traversed
without end, are labyrinthine in the truest sense of the word.
Labyrinths obsessed Jorge Luis Borges. With startling eloquence he has shown me my predicament.
I am addicted to creating parallels at once vertiginous and narcissistic. I am convinced there exists a sort of intellectual black
hole, its event horizon announced by an idea beginning to articulate itself across every form of communication. The perfidious
idea will become the meaning of everything and, it will seem,
nothing: as inarguable as the air we breathe.
I have read everything I can find by Borges since my troubles
began. I believe the fleeting ice in my chilled water and depth
beyond the aggressive façade of my reflections is Borges’s
way of showing me the point of no return. I do not know what I
am being warned against. If you too have seen the Fish of the
Mirror, felt the uneasiness of it, then please do not hesitate to
contact me. My details are attached.
Borges said, “in advance of the invasion we will hear from the
depths of mirrors the clatter of weapons”. Listen carefully.

mark.piccini97@gmail.com
PO BOX 3596, Brisbane, QLD, 4000

personal essay

a week as a pig
Words by Jayde deBondt
Image by anna birchall

I

am interrupted. She cackles so hard and so close to my face I
can see her tonsils warble. Her breath is putrid, a pungent cocktail of garlic, cigarettes and alcohol.
I try to remain still. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s difficult as sweat has started to trickle
down my furrowed brow. It rests on my top lip and I resist the urge
to flick my tongue out and taste its saltiness. My eyes are sagging, the left blinks uncontrollably. I stay the same and the woman, bored with me, decides to cross the road.
I did not dare to breathe before, but now I greedily gulp the air
around me. The woman disappears in the sea of umbrellas and
coffee stands, but already there is a new pair of beady slits, staring full of judgement and malice.

T

he pink fluffy suit begins to pull at my sides, weighing
me down. My aching bones creak with each sloth-move
I make. My curly tail dangles between my legs, hitting each
thigh as I trudge up that awful hill, and I wonder what this
week has in store for me. It has only been three hours and
I’ve already had enough. Exaggerated stares at the “silly
bitch” wearing a pig suit, old men joking I resemble their wife
or mother, school children pulling my ears and laughing at my
snout, if only they could put themselves in my hooves.
Wearing a pig suit for a week is meant to be fun; a little bit
of a laugh. Already I feel I’m wrong, already I know this isn’t
going to be the week I intended. I long to retreat back to my
room, run home and sleep. No-one can bother me there, well
except me. Pity, it’s only four and I have another class.
Fifteen pairs of eyes watch me enter the classroom. I can tell
they’re all wondering why I’m dressed as a pig, but they’re not
game to ask. It’s almost like a silent game of truth or dare,
only no-one’s yet agreed to play. Finally, Ginger-Ninja manages to fumble upon the courage to ask.
“Why are you dressed like a swine?”
I don’t want to tell her the real reason; it’d ruin the fun.
“Oh, it’s a political statement,” I say.
Her upper lip stiffens, and her eyes widen. I don’t think she
is satisfied with my answer but she doesn’t ask me any more
questions. Instead she puts her head down. I shimmy past
her to take my seat and notice her hands quiver although she
tries so hard not to move. I’ve made an impact.

I

t’s day two. Maybe today will be different. No, I know today
will be different. As I brush my teeth in the bathroom, one of
the girls from my block walks in.
“It’s so hot out today, you’re going to be bacon,” she says.
I can’t help but laugh. I can do puns. But she’s familiar, and
where I’m going to eat breakfast, everyone is a stranger. I
begin to walk quickly, and the quicker I walk, the less uncomfortable I feel. I glance at people when I pass them, they’re
smiling at me. Still, I keep up the pace. I pass a young couple;
they must think I am out of ear-shot as I can hear them whisper about me.
“She’s gutsy to do that.”

a first aid kit. Several people are frowning. The man with the
grey hat and lazy eye snickers.
“Go back to your fucking sty.”
The do-gooders turn against the pig.
I don’t know what to do. Maybe I am cowardly, maybe I am
smart.
“I will,” I say as I get up to leave.
Fast walk, jog, run and then sprint. I can’t get away fast
enough. I am out of sight, but the woman is still on my mind.

I agree. I am. What nice strangers. I begin to slow down; people seem to be embracing my outfit. But I realise people have
stopped staring at me – something else has caught their attention.
Behind me, a woman has fallen out of her wheelchair; she
must have hit the curb awkwardly. I didn’t even hear her fall.
At least fifteen people run to her aid. They’re like seagulls
fighting over a chip.
I join the crowd of do-gooders. I overhear a man with a grey
hat and lazy eye suggest lifting her. An older lady in a blue
blouse doesn’t agree. They squabble for a while before another man interjects. The woman just sits there, blood gushes
from her knee and tears run down her right cheek.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask the woman.
She gives me a faint smile. I look up and ask someone to get

I

t’s day five. I call a friend to see if she will come with me to
the shopping centre, but she isn’t available until two. It’s
10.00am, I need to go now. I’ve spent the last three days in
hiding; I’m desperate for supplies, namely deodorant.
I get in the car and I begin to feel very hot. Too hot. My heart
is pounding so loud my ears are ringing from the sound. I
rev my car before changing gears when I pass through the
round-a-bout. Other drivers stare through their windows, but
then again maybe it’s just my pig head. I park awkwardly; this
stress is really getting to me. Maybe I should just wait until
two? No, it has to be now. I drag myself out of the car and
trudge into the shopping centre. My head is down, but I can
still feel onlooker’s eyes burning into the back of my pig suit.

As I get closer to Coles people barely seem to notice me.
I look around to see what interests them more than me; a
group of special needs children, and their carers. I don’t
stare; they already have enough people gawking at them. And
then there’s a yelp, and a child is tugging at my arm, he’s
punching my belly.
“You’re my pig now, you’re mine,” the boy puffs, as he tries
to drag my rigid body back towards his group. If people didn’t
notice me before, they do now. I try and tell the boy I’m not a
real pig, I’m just pretending. Wrong thing to say. Punches become hysterical thrashes. The other children begin to stir, I’m
helpless. The carer comes. She’s yelling but I can’t hear what
she’s saying -- something about me being stupid, but it’s all
background noise. I’m just trying not to cry; nobody can have
the satisfaction of making me cry. It’s not their fault though,
it’s mine.
I manage to make it back to my car, where there’s no stopping the tears. I just want to go home, but I’m hysterical. I
can’t breathe properly, oh God I can’t breathe. Suddenly
there is a frantic knock on my window. It’s a blonde woman;
she’s middle-aged and a little bit chubby.
“Pig, Pig are you ok?” she says.
I am not a pig. I’m a person, a real person.
My fists clench tightly together. My body becomes stiff and I
slowly turn my head to face the woman. I stare at her directly
in the eyes and look at her for what seems like eternity. The
tears are gone, only anger remains. She begins to back away
slowly. I want to shout at her, scream at her, but my lips feel
as though they’ve been super-glued shut. I want her to know I
have a name. I want her to know I hate her.

I

t’s day seven, and the clock has struck 12 pm. My week as a
pig is over, and I’m not relieved. I lie in bed and try to sleep,
but I can’t. Either my sheets are too sticky or my air conditioner is too loud. My thinking begins. It’s endless.
Who am I?
A kid pulls my tail when I’m not looking; I almost topple backwards. Little shit. I’m twelve now, we do partner dancing in
sport class. The girls get to choose which boy they want to
dance with. I already know who I’ll pick, I have to run fast
though, I don’t want to be stuck with the left-overs. There are
always three leftovers; the worst one to get is fatty. He smells
and his face is covered in pussy spots. Does he even shower?
The race begins, I pick who I want. As I walk to the dance floor
I look back and fatty along with his two side-kicks are making
their way to their chairs. They’re frowning.

I’m not a bad person. We were just kids. I never said anything
mean to anyone and I was always polite. I volunteer, and
study hard. I have lots of friends.
I am interrupted. My room is dark, but I can still see the shadow of a pig’s head facing me. It’s watching me, smiling.

Fiction

thirteen
by Issy Beech

K

nees knocking together nervously, our wet childish lips squealing delights of the afternoons. We’d guzzle
ham and salad sandwiches and pool our coins together for a saccharine swag of confectionary our mothers would never have sanctioned. Our wandering limbs preceding us as we wore our uniforms in a deep, adolescent languor interrupted only by visceral fits of giddy laughter and loaded whispers. The browns of our legs
and our noses, and hair up high and sloppy, we’d blur together in packs like wolves, smelling of concentrated
coconut or Lipsmackers, smacking our lips. Rooms scattered with tampons, glittered stickers, posters of boys
ten years our senior, girls we’d have died to look like, and floors speckled with empty chocolate wrappers and
magazine lift outs, torn out sex and love columns (two topics which at the time we knew very little – if not nothing – about), and an excessive rainbow of hardened nail polish. Our clumsy lips would press against one another in spasms of teenage obsession, and our awkward hands would wander. Neither was more experienced
than the other, the only thing forcing us onwards was the hot, hard air around us, and the lingering legends of
our friends and their progressions. My hair would fall on his shoulders, and his anxious hands would find the
groove in my waist. I’m not sure if were taking pleasure, or simply pressing on in order to cover new ground.
Those feelings seem so distant, so ancient. Back when pink cheeks were humiliation and not hotheadedness;
when our skirts were covered in crumbs and an afternoon ice-cream was a window to our budding sexuality;
when the only way to express love was to scribe a soul-bearing, glittering love note. When our dreary day-to-day
rituals didn’t smother our spirits, though they won’t tonight.

Fiction

lighting the
corridor
by Kyra Bandte
For Mark
double-shadow on the wall
when the light hits right
the sky turns yellow
through a paper-roll telescope
/ see his silhouette projected
dusk reclines on the horizonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s belly
watch the slow
exhale
of oranges and fleshy pinks
cast a line out
cast a shadow on a string
tie it up from the ceiling
dangle down and make
a double-brother on the wall.

fiction

mulch
by michelle allAn

W

hen we first arrive it’s a jungle. There’s no logic to the plant
life; everything is scattered wherever their seedpods happened to fall. The trees are tall, ageless, blanketing the sky, hiding
the sun. For the first few months, we focus on the grass roots. I
revel in the dirt, constructing houses for the tiny green plums that
have lost their grip. We pull out endless ivy, unrelenting miniature
trees, and dandelions with strong single roots. As the dirt collects
under our fingernails, the chaos begins to subside.
My father is in a white t-shirt, with a little sailboat embroidered on
the chest. Bent over a shovel, chopping up the earth, his ripped
blue jeans expose his knees to the dirt. Heat hangs in the air and I
can see beads of sweat form on the back of his neck as he works.
“Dad,” I say. He takes a break, driving the spade down so it stands
without the support of his elbow. “Yeah, Shell?” I am his first mate
and this is our ship. “Which ones are we planting first?” He takes
a moment to think, as I fumble with the maracas. “The silver beet,
what do you reckon?” Crouching on a plank of wood in the middle
of the miniature field, I watch with wide eyes as he drags his finger,
creating a tiny trench. There’s a scraping sound as I rip open the
paper, bringing the seeds back to life. The sound takes me back to
a photograph: bright plastic sandals, daggy clothing. I stoop over
the tunnels and carefully leave a trail of crumbs. With a sweep of
his arm, he buries them.

It’s freezing, but I’m outside, enacting the lives of the fallen plums.
I move them, speak for them, and etch on their faces with twigs.
I dig a shallow swimming pool with my hands but its thirst will not
be quenched. The mud drips down the sides until it reveals a root
jutting out beneath the surface. I pull at it and it comes loose. A
cold, ornate key rests in my palm and I gaze at in wonder. “Shell?”
I jolt in surprise and the key is lost momentarily amongst the rust
coloured topsoil. “What are you doing?” my dad asks as he leans
against the plum tree. He’s wearing a thick maroon jumper with
the occasional hole. I pick up the key to show him. He joins me on
the ground, crossing his legs to sit, still a giant in my presence. We
talk about things we’ve found in the garden: bottles, pegs, a statue
of a tiny man sitting on a pair of barrels. When my imagination begins drift into magical places, he winks, “I bet it unlocks something
around the house.” Jumping up, I try the first door I come across.
The metal key twists in the hole, useless. The next door is completely painted over but I jam the key against the impression of the
hole, a pathetic tap-tap-tapping echoes down the empty entrance
hall.

With practiced movements, I scale the tree, clambering onto the
roof of the carport. The metal creaks underneath my weight and I
begin to fear I am outgrowing my oasis. Beneath me is my father’s
work car: dark, clean and very corporate. It doesn’t belong. He is
branded on our dusty, white Mazda, initials gleaming on the number plate. Slowly I lie down on the warm corrugated iron and rest
my head in my hands. The sky is almost completely blue, only a few
white strands drift in my peripheral vision. Lazily, I watch as they
journey to another state. I hear the slamming of the fly screen door,
so I raise my torso with the help of two bruised elbows. My father
comes down the front steps in his gardening uniform, the little sailboat paddling through a wisp of sea foam. “Shelly,” he calls to me.
I wave. He smiles back. “I’m not sure you should be up there,” he
pauses, “I think the carport might be getting a bit old to have you
climbing all over it.” He watches me scramble to my feet. “I know,”
he sympathises. Once he leaves, I consider staying where I am, but
decide there’s no point delaying the adjustment. I approach the fig
trees out back. I can see they’re heavy with the evidence of summer: the first is stocky with green baubles of fruit, the second, a
skeleton hand clasping at brown teardrops. The limbs of the first
are thick and welcoming, cool unlike the roasted metal shadowing
the dark blue beast. At the point furthest from the garage, I find a
sturdy branch that hangs out over the violets growing in the grass
below.

With a bit of effort, I clear away some of the smaller branches until
I have a perch I can lie back on. A dark brown key hanging around
my neck slips to the side and swings with my feet as I begin to drift
in and out of daydreams. Suddenly I feel a weight on my foot, tugging me down. I sit up in panic and cling to the spindly branches
around me. I hear a gruff chuckle. “Taking a cat nap were you?” my
father asks. I relax as soon as I realise it’s him, and swat playfully
at his retreating hand.
I stand at the window rugged up in two jumpers. A fire is crackling
behind me but the house is still cold. I tug mindlessly at the chain
around my neck. The key is warm from my skin. Behind the glass,
the trees have dropped all their leaves, creating a graveyard over
the plants below. It starts to rain, and soon it’s pouring down. I try
to convince myself it’s good for the broccoli, just a few days from
harvesting, but am consumed by selfishness. All I want is for the
sun to shine down and roast the concrete; keep the lizards warm.
My father stands up from tending the flames and comes over to
stand next to me. “It’s really coming down out there,” he says. He
glances at the key I’m twirling between my fingers. “I was thinking
about picking up some new drippers for the fruit trees out back.” I
interrupt him. “Gone soft have you? Can’t bear standing out there
in the cold with the hose?” I jibe. He swipes jokingly at the back of
my head and our faces crack. “Garden Centre, then?” he says.
“Do you even have to ask?”

I

haven’t grown as much as my brother, but standing on my tiptoes
is enough to pluck the prize from the tree. I juggle it in my hand
as I walk down the driveway towards the front lawn. The grass is
freshly mowed; my father has moved on to trimming the hedge.
He’s on the ladder with a pair of shears, attacking the overzealous
greenery. He waves when he sees me, his little embroidered boat
bobbing, and then goes back to the task at hand. I stumble up the
short, steep hill and collapse into relaxation. Carefully I peel off the
outer layer of the fruit. I have no idea what it’s called, but I’m sure
he does. I bite into the flesh and drink in the sourness that sends a
jolt down my spine. In no time I’m licking my fingers clean, berating
myself for not picking a second. It’s another warm summer day. On
my back, the top level of the house protrudes from the right and I
watch in a sway of motion sickness as the fluffy white clouds drift
over and on. All the while in the background, there’s a clipping of
the hedge trimmers.

The lawn is rebelling. It’s covered with the tall stems of dandelions. Without them, I doubt there would be much greenery. In the
morning, after the sun comes up, they all open, revealing their
yellow hearts to the world. It’s almost beautiful. The cubby house
is tucked in behind the bare oak tree, gathering dust, next to the
boundaries of bluestone. The camellia on the porch is dead, eaten
by snails, and the rosemary bush has turned to tinder. I look longingly at the fig trees half hidden by the hedge. I don’t know it now,
but next week they will be hacked from their resting places, two giants ripped down by the next owner’s suburban dream of a pool. Instinctively I grasp at my throat. There’s no key; lost to the grass on
a dateless day. It’s a part of the house I didn’t want to leave behind.
The new garden is a desert, lost amongst the tightly packed suburbs. After we’ve hauled in our furniture, mint sprouts, running wild
without any nurturing. The scent seeps through my bedroom window, soothing my nerves. Clover begins to canvas the pale brown
soil and two silver beet plants spring up to provide shade for the
dog. I trim and water them as they go to seed, but one of them dies
off and is removed from the curb the following Monday. The single
silver beet doesn’t slow with age and soon it’s taller than me. Eventually I dress it in tinsel and baubles. My brother is embarrassed,
but my mother is amused.
My father says he misses me as he installs fake grass on his balcony in the city.

Community

the art of weaving a tale
BY ANNA Angel

D

o you catch yourself thinking in catchphrases of 140 characters or less and struggling to make extended
conversation? I do. I don’t know when I changed, but I used to love to tell stories. I still love to write them
down, but get me in front of people and I freeze. I’ve lost the art of storytelling; of spinning a spontaneous narrative. From folk tales to salons, the spoken word has played a pivotal role in human history, in the development of culture and the spread of information. Have many of us gone backward in this particular skill set? The
pace of digital communication commands our tales fit into ironclad structures or else be served a backhanded
‘tl;dr’ (too long, didn’t read). In person, we simply don’t have the time, or a willing audience.

New York’s The Moth is a series of live storytelling events that’s been running since 1997 and working to combat our culture of clipped conversation (alliteration!). There’s only one catch – the stories must be true. The
intimate stage events proved so popular, they’ve since expanded to a radio segment, and online platform allowing potential speakers to pitch and share their stories on the website. The live show is still the main fare. What
else could see you as simultaneously vulnerable and enriched as standing before strangers and sharing something real? Not an anecdote you thought the Twittersphere might appreciate, not a polite back-and-forth banter.
Your own pain, embarrassment, love, joy or secret.
Happily, Brisbane literary journal Stilts has recently launched a biannual live storytelling event inspired by The
Moth. Yarn invites audience to come and hear a story, or swallow their nerves and share their own. There’s
hope for a new breed of folk legend, passed on in whispered tones as you leave the bar and find your voice
again. It doesn’t have to be on a stage, or even in front of an audience. Just stretch those vocal chords, forget
table conversation, and share a killer story with your friends. The whole story, not just a status’ worth.
www.underthestilts.com
www.themoth.org

compassion

how to save a life in 30 seconds
You can save an actual life in less time than it takes to listen to that song by The Fray that played at
the end of Grey’s Anatomy’s first season finale called How to Save a Life. Here’s how:

1. Give blood. If it’s your first time, this may well take longer than the promised time frame,

but given the pay-off, we think it’s worth a whole damn afternoon. Visit www.donateblood.com.au
to find your nearest collection centre. You’ll get a nifty card with your blood type on it, and hopefully
enough good karma that someone will send blood your way should you ever need it. This is a triplekarma score, too, because one donations helps three patients. Nice!

2. Register as an organ donor. This one really does only take thirty seconds, and you

3. Get a best buddy. A farm buddy, that is; we know you can make friends all on your own.

Edgar’s Mission rescue abused farm animals, and care for them at their 60 acre sanctuary. We
don’t expect you to do that (do you even have 60 acres?), but if you have half a minute, you can
sponsor an animal all of your own and not only save a life, but keep one happy and safe. Visit www.
edgarsmission.org.au to find your new best friend.

4. Cast a net. One of the most effective charities in the world does one of the simplest things:

distributes insecticided mosquito nets. Against Malaria’s method is proven to help prevent the disease; it saves lives. It’s not the sexiest charity gift, but 100 per cent of your money goes toward
stopping unnecessary deaths. A fiver buys and distributes one net -- what hard working spare
change! www.againstmalaria.com.

Fiction

calendar
girl
By Charlotte Guest

Each member of my family has their own calendar 1.
We also have the family calendar 2.
Then there is the show calendar 3, the android calendar 4,
the university diary and the yearly planner 5.
No one advertises their availability like me.

1. This is where we spread out our respective to-do lists so we feel like busy, busy people. My square for today boasts “return DVDs”, Mum's has “shopping” (we're talking groceries), and Dad's has “golf”, like every other square of his.
2. The family calendar is a collective work. It stores the more significant occasions we feel the other house mates should know about. Today is blank. In three squares time the
calendar says “Charlotte’s Birthday”, which translates to “I remembered”. The main problem with the family calendar is that it’s incomprehensible. Mum appears to write in
code: someone please tell me what “ZZCC” could be - it happens every second Saturday. This Tuesday something called “WASD” is going down. Dad’s hand-writing is frankly
appalling. Tomorrow he is off to what looks like “Bork Bifant”.
3. A number of people buy us calendars too special to use. They masquerade as personalised, bottom-of-your-heart gifts, but the fact they come from borderline forgotten relatives and acquaintances makes them reek of desperation.
“What do they like?!”
“Um, time?”
Obviously, it’s the thought that counts, and seeing as we also ship off calendars to those in our outer circles, these show calendars come and go in a comfortable mist of mutual
nonchalance.
4. The calendar in my phone is a notch above the others in one important respect: the reminder.
5. The yearly planner is basically a humbling-device - a big, poster-sized statement to remind you anything you do this year will have rather weak ripple-on effects.

Compassion

sydney story
factory

W

hen Dave Eggers opened innovative youth creative writing
and literacy organisation 826 Valencia in 2002, fronted
by the Pirate Supply Store, he couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have known how influential it would become. This style of running project-based writing
labs and workshops within a uniquely creative space has spread
across the US, the UK, and now, to Australia with the opening of
Sydney Story Factory.
Cofounder Catherine Keenan tells us what drives the not-forprofit, volunteer-run organisation.

The inspiration

The process

The purpose

It was pretty direct, actually. I watched the TED Talk
by Dave Eggers talking about 826, and I just thought
it was so good. I think he has done a lot to show people how much you achieve philanthropically, and what
a difference you can make. I sent it to my friend Tim
[Dick]. I’ve got two small kids, and Tim comes from
a family of teachers. He came back and said, ‘we
should do something like that here’.

We started work last January. Tim is a lawyer, so
that’s helped with the legal side of things. Because
I used to be the literacy editor at The Sydney Morning Herald, we started with writers, really. We asked a
lot of writers if they’d be interested in helping us and
they were all so supportive. Then we put the board
together, and that’s how we met Robyn Ewing who’s
our education guru in all of this, and has been pivotal
in working out how we’re going to do it, and how we’re
going to evaluate it.

Robyn Ewing has done research that shows people
from minority cultures can often feel excluded from
the education system because it can tend to focus on
one mainstream culture. If you leave school at three
in the afternoon, and you go home and speak another
language until you return in the morning, chances are
it’s going to make you less confident in your writing.

We started asking around, because we thought originally maybe someone had already done it here, but
no one had. As we went along, we talked to teachers
who were worried about a lack of space for creative
writing and lack of space to do it themselves, and they
were very positive about the idea.
It has been modified because Australia’s different to
the US; our needs are different. At 826 they have a
very strong homework help program, which we don’t
do because other people already do that and do it
well.

We launched at The Sydney Writer’s Festival last May;
that was when we launched the concept and kicked
off our fund raising drive, and pilot programs. We
sprung to five different programs last year in schools
around the Redfern area.

Because we give kids one-on-one or small group attention, it can be less intimidating to experiment with
language or even to write things down. You’re not
having to present to a large group. We found when
working with kids for whom English is not their first
language, that just sitting down and talking to a tutor
for an hour was really beneficial for their language in
terms of developing their confidence.

Another big thing we did in the beginning was to visit
a lot of people in the area; people who were involved
in literacy or worked in Redfern, just to see what they
thought and get their input.

I think there can be a sense that creative writing is a)
for grown ups and b) for different kinds of people. This
is just a way to say, ‘it can be you’. You can write a
book, you can do this.

In August last year, I took six month’s leave from the
Herald and officially began working for Sydney Story
Factory as Executive Director three days a week. I’ve
now resigned from the Herald and am working here
indefinitely.

“We booked a room at the
Alexandra Hotel thinking it
was just going to be us and
a handful of friends who we
could force to come along. We
had 200 people turn up.”

The support

The reaction

We have been very lucky to get great support along
the way. We held a team meeting in April last year
because we thought we should get some people to
help out, and we booked a room at the Alexandra
Hotel thinking it was just going to be us and a handful
of friends who we could force to come along. We had
200 people turn up. A lot of them knew about Dave
Eggers and what he’d done, and said ‘great, anything
remotely like that, I’ll help’.

We have had a great reaction from the kids, and
that’s been really heartening. At the end of every
class, we asked for feedback from the students, their
parents, the teachers and the volunteers. It was particularly positive from the teachers. All of them noticed that their student’s enthusiasm and confidence
for writing had increased. The students were also
really positive, and you could see it.

At the end of all of our programs, you end up with
Our volunteers are very diverse. They range from their something that you can hold in your hands and be
late teens to their 70s, and they come from all around proud of. With some, it was a newspaper they made,
Sydney. A lot of them work in the creative industries
or books they wrote with a beautiful illustration on
somehow, in publishing, journalism, or something,
the front, and a photo of the author on the back and
but then a lot of them don’t. I think a basic belief in
a blurb about them. The first time we did that, and
the importance or enjoyment of creative writing is
they got that book and they held it, you could see they
probably at the heart of it. And I think it’s fun. It’s fun were kind of stunned and really proud of it. We place
and it’s not really onerous. You can volunteer for us if a big value on that finished product. It’s not someyou’ve got an hour a month, you don’t have to commit. thing you wrote that gets lost, it’s something you can
take home, put on the shelf and show your mum and
dad.

The Martian Embassy Gift Shop

The experience

Getting involved

When they kicked off the Pirates Supply Store at 826,
it was absolutely just to comply with zoning laws. Once
they’d done it they realised first of all it started to
make money, which was a good surprise, and secondly when you go there it’s a really amazing and interesting place for adults or kids to just hang out. It gives
the place a different feeling.

It’s really nice to do something different and to be
learning different things all the time. I’ve never done
anything like this in my life, and that’s kind of good
for you I think. I have to write a lot of policies and fill
out applications – quite boring things, but then I also
go in and teach kids and that reminds you why you do
the boring things. We have all these people who are
happy to help us and get involved, and that’s really
rewarding.

As it is, we have around 600 people who’ve asked
to volunteer, but with the best will in the world, most
people work during the week and that’s when we’ll
need most of our volunteers. When we open we’ll also
be running programs on a Sunday, so it’s often easier
for people to volunteer at those times. You need a
vast pool of people to make sure that you can cover
every Monday afternoon or every Thursday morning,
so we would love more volunteers.

You have to walk through that shop to get to the centre, and when the kids go through there it puts them
in a different head space where these weird things
are possible, and you realise that the rules are slightly
different and you can do things here that you might
not think you could have done at school. It adds
another layer to make it different to a regular afterschool tutoring program.
All the products will be in tins, and ‘Made on Mars’
will be the brand. There’ll be things like Martian sunscreen -- SPF Factor 5000, tins of teeny humans, crop
circle starter kits, and ‘my first abduction’ kits. The
idea is that they’re an imaginative joke, and they’re a
way of donating to our cause that’s fun.

“When the kids go through there it
puts them in a different head space
where these weird things are
possible, and you realise the rules
are slightly different ...”

You can donate to us, and that’s fantastic but due to
the laws of tax deductibility all we can do is send you
a note saying ‘thank you’. If you become a member it
means the first fifty dollars is not tax deductible, and
for that fifty dollars you get updates on what we’re
doing, a really cool looking membership card and a
discount in the shop, and occasionally we invite you
to events that we’re having. It’s a way of being more
engaged with what we do.

For more information on Sydney Story Factory and
the wonderfully creative people who are involved â&#x20AC;&#x201C;
from architecture, to tutoring, to creating their
fantastic promo video â&#x20AC;&#x201C; visit
www.sydneystoryfactory.org.au.

Images: Matthew Rivera and Delia French in a Sydney Story Factory workshop
(pg. 66) and the end result (left).

Creativity

bin diving
for art
BY ANNA Angel

A

few months ago Brisbane's Gallery of Modern Art
hosted an exhibition of minimalist Matisse sketches called Matisse: Drawing Life. They converted their
bar space into a luxurious drawing room, and asked
visitors to create their own sketches from the inspiration around them. Pencils scratched, muses were
found, and when it was all over people were too embarrassed to take their creations home with them. In
the end, the majority went in the bins provided.
Reaching over the bin for a pencil, I spied a gorgeous
silhouette looking up at me. Manners say you should
never go through other people's rubbish, but it was
too tempting. I pulled out handful after handful of
sketches visitors had dreamt up, drawn and discarded. There were self portraits, crude drawings too offensive to publish here, still life, and more than a few
boobs. I absolutely loved getting this (possibly illegal)
glimpse at art no one was ever meant to see. If you're
from GOMA, or drew one of these sketches: I'm sorry.
I just loved them too much to leave them. Is 'finders
keepers' an excuse? Either way, here is a selection of
the findings.

Culture

DON’T
PANIC

THE RUN, RABBIT GUIDE TO 'THE HITCHHIKER'S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY’
by anna angel

T

he Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (which we’ll
just call The Guide from now on to save time) has
had more reincarnations than Prince. Douglas Adam’s
The Guide began as a six-part sci-fi comedy radio series that ran on BBC radio in 1978. Adams’ quirky tale
was commissioned for a second series, broadcast in
1980. Things developed pretty quickly from there. So
let’s back up a little.

We’re now used to the relentless multimedia cross
promotion of books, films, video games and Happy
Meals, but for its time, this clean media sweep was
quite novel. The Guide soon spawned three more
novels (‘a trilogy in five parts’), stage shows, computer
games, and three comic books published by DC. What
made these adaptations unusual is that Adams had a
hand in producing all of them.

The Guide opens on Arthur Dent’s white bread English existence. His house is about to be demolished
without warning, and he is suitably upset. Instead of
providing comfort, his friend Ford Prefect tells him actually, the entire planet is about to be demolished to
“make way for a hyperspace bypass”.

Adams had expressed interest in producing a radio
series from the third book, Life, the Universe and Everything in the 1990s, but the project didn’t get off the
ground until after his death in 2001. The final three
volumes were adapted to radio and broadcast on BBC
in 2004 and 2005. Also in 2005 came the Hollywood
(yet still very British) adaptation. Stephen Fry provided
the voice of The Guide, as Adams had apparently always imagined it.

Ordinary in these scenarios, it would be up to Dent to
say something silly like, “not on my watch”, and to begin plotting to save Earth. Instead, Dent and Prefect –
who is actually an alien writer for an electronic guidebook to intergalactic travel called The Hitchhiker’s
Guide to the Galaxy – find themselves on a hijacked
spacecraft with some very colourful characters and
the planet is promptly eradicated.
In 1979 Adams wrote a book adaptation of the first
series, adopting a brilliantly blunt tone and a vast
scope that managed to pale all human events, while
still championing our tendency to frivolous emotion.
The second series was soon novelised, too, and the
first series developed for TV.

I

n 1998, Adams founded a website called h2g2, intended to simulate the Earth section of The Guide.
The idea of an interactive hub of information that was
kept up-to-date in real time by actual users seemed
almost impossible then. Now we call it Wikipedia.
Today the site is a treasure trove for fans, with original entries written by Adams still available, and every
conceivable question you might have about any of
The Guide incarnations answerable. He wrote on tea,
brochures and hangovers with characteristic humour.
Fans write on ear surgery and attempt to fill in every
other detail of life on Earth.

The website is maintained by The Hitchhiker’s Guide
to the Galaxy Foundation, which is dedicated to preserving Adams’ legacy by promoting literacy and the
sharing of ideas.
Today, fans carry towels on May 25 – two weeks after
Adams’ death – in memory of a remarkable section of
The Guide that suggested a hitchhiker should always
know where their towel is.
“A towel is about the most massively useful thing an
interstellar hitchhiker can have... any man who can
hitch the length and breadth of the Galaxy, rough it,
slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through
and still know where his towel is, is clearly a man to
be reckoned with,” Adams wrote in the first novel.
Why does this intergalactic adventure still inspire so
many? Well, it’s funny for one thing, and clever for
another. Imagination can conquer up all kinds of universes, but The Guide speaks to our own, and of our
place in it. For his part, Adams said of its success, “All
I know is that I worked very hard at it... I suspect that
the amount that people have liked it is not unrelated
to the amount of work I put into it”. We don’t like to
debate with the purists on the best way to enjoy The
Guide. We’re happy for you to read the books, watch
the movie simply to catch Zooey Deschanel’s stunning
eyes, or dig up copies of the original radio series.
Just enjoy it, and don’t forget your towel.

Compassion

how to get the
most for your give

W

hen we tighten our belts, charities are
often the first to suffer. If weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re giving
less money, or just giving to fewer causes, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s
more important than ever to see solid results
for our dollar. It can be difficult to figure out
exactly where to invest your hard-earned cash,
especially when met with the smiling faces
of charity workers wielding clipboards in the
street; each ready to sign you up, and each
with a cause that seems just as worthy as the
next.

O

ne of the most popular methods of picking just one charity out of many
is to go with what seems to stick out from the crowd and linger in your
mind. This makes sense in many ways, but also increases the chance of
giving to a charity that’s got more people in their marketing team than they
have on-the-ground workers, or lots of expensive air time and therefore
less cost-effective results.
So how can we measure a charity’s success? First, ask if they’re aiming for
something tangible, and if they’re transparent in their methods. An organisation calling for world peace may have a great underpinning mission, but
in order to achieve anything real, measurable steps need to be mapped
out and action undertaken. Sometimes the smaller an organisation’s
scope is, the more successful they are in meeting goals.
Second, ask if they’re cost effective and ethical in their spending. Every
charity must disclose (often in small print, hidden well off the main pages
of their website) their spending and financial health for each year. It’s up
to you whether 30 per cent of revenue directed into administration is too
much, but it’s always worth looking into. Ethical standards are a very personal thing. For example, some are okay with a charity directing a percentage of aid funds into religious teaching, others aren’t, but it’s often something you have to ask directly to get a straight answer. If the charity works
in international aid: do they have measures in place to ensure they aren’t
culturally intrusive or insensitive? What other organisations and bodies is
the charity tied to? Do they meet your ethical standards?

If you’re wondering how to find out all this information without hiring a private investigator, thank your lucky stars for Give Well, an organisation dedicated to getting the most philanthropic bang for your buck. They provide a
simple list of questions you can direct to any charity you’re considering donating to, or even volunteering for (time is money), tailored to the field they
work in. For example, you might ask an international disaster relief fund to
walk you through their last disaster response. Did they publish a fund raising target? If so, did they stop collecting donations upon reaching it? Do
they assist with long term reconstruction? A conservation charity, on the
other hand, should be able to tell you their plans for all land purchases,
their future targets and priorities.
If there’s not a singular issue close to your heart, both Give Well and the
similar Charity Navigator provide independent analysis of many international charities. You might find a well rating organisation there that both
tugs your heart and inspires you with their stringent fiscal responsibility.
For an Australian focus, visit Philanthropy Australia, who provide their own
guide to giving, and a list of local charitable organisations. Charity databases Give Now and Auscharity are also worth a look as a reference point, but
given their uncritical eye, always ask your own questions. Your thirty bucks
a month can probably stretch a lot further in the right hands.
www.givewell.org

Community

Maurice Sendak
remembered
June 1928 - May 2012

“ ... Max stepped into his private boat and waved
good-bye and sailed back over a year and in and out
of weeks and through a day and into the night of his
very own room where he found his supper waiting for
him - and it was still hot.”
‘Where the Wild Things Are’, 1963

O

ver his celebrated career, author and illustrator Maurice Sendak redefined what it meant to write for children. The bulk of his work was in illustrating the writing of others in his fantastical style, but the stories he spun
were nothing short of ground-breaking. Sendak wrote of loss, illness, defiance, aggression and nearly everything else convention said children books
shouldn’t touch. Children, it was thought, needed happy stories with nice,
neat endings. Sendak didn’t believe in censoring tales for little ears, and
said, “if it’s true you tell them”.

Recalling the almost grotesque creatures of WTWTA and the controversial In
the Night Kitchen, clearly he had not lost his touch for melting the fantastical
with haunting reality.

Sendak was exposed to loss at an early age, and confined to a sick bed for
much of his youth. His own experience perhaps informed his complex understanding of childhood, as well as opening him up to the imaginative escape
of reading. Sendak believed children were constantly battling frustration, fear
and anxiety, and, “it is through fantasy that children achieve catharsis. It is
the best means they have for taming Wild Things”.

Sendak became known for his dry sense of humour and blunt manner. He
may have said he liked children “as few and far between” as adults, but he
respected them in a way most of us forget to. He kept a collection of letters
from young fans, and replied to every single one. A favourite was from a kid
who’d sent a particularly wonderful hand-drawn card, which Sendak replied
to with an original illustration and a note, “Dear Jim: I loved your card”. Jim’s
mother wrote to Sendak. “Jim loved your card so much he ate it”. To Sendak,
the highest praise didn’t come from parents and critics. It came from his
readers.

After seeing Disney’s Fantasia at the age of twelve, Sendak decided he
wanted to become an illustrator. While Sendak did find much success as an
illustrator of children’s books, he was known mostly for his own titles; Where
the Wild Things Are, which shook up the children’s literature world when
first published in 1963, In the Night Kitchen, and Chicken Soup with Rice,
amongst others.
In his first self-written and illustrated children’s book in three decades,
2011’s Bumble-Ardy, Sendak told the tale of an orphaned pig (his parents
were eaten) who throws himself a birthday party.

In his final years, Sendak spoke openly about his fifty-year relationship with
psychoanalyst Eugene Glynn, who passed away in 2007. He later said Glynn’s
illness, and the trauma they both went through, was the catalyst for breaking
his long silence and writing Bumble-Ardy.

Reflecting on his eighty-odd years in a 2011 interview, Sendak said, “I have
nothing now but praise for my life”. He continued: “I’m not unhappy. I cry a lot
because I miss people. They die and I can’t stop them. They leave me and I
love them more.”
Sendak, too, will be sorely missed.

Letters

Letters to the editor

solar system
by Michael Wayne

Dear Neptune,
Hi from the FRONT OF THE LINE!
Dear Pluto,

Love,

Too bad about getting disbarred!

Mercury

Try to look on the bright side, though - you were only considered a real planet for 76 years, which isn’t all that long in your
scheme of things.

Dear Venus,
Please turn down your bright lights!

Raoul Blex, COSTA RICA

We have light pollution laws in our neighbourhood, and you’re
in flagrant breach of them. I can’t get to sleep!
Varg Vargssen, NORWAY
Dear Mercury,

Dear Jupiter,

When are you going to move out? You’re old enough now to
be out on your own, but still you insist on staying here.

I have to say it worries me that giant red spot hasn’t cleared
up yet. That’s what, nearly 350 years it has been there?

I’ll have to start charging you board soon. I know you think
you’re hot stuff, but nobody likes a mummy’s boy.

As my mother always said: if you don’t stop picking at it, it’ll
never get better.

The Sun

Jean Bastige, FRANCE

Dear Uranus,
I feel bad for you that people always laugh at your name.
I know how you feel.
A. L. Butts, age 8, NEW ZEALAND

Dear Earth,
How are you? It’s been a while since you’ve been in for a
checkup.
I’ve noticed you’ve had a few more quakes lately than usual, I
can give you some TUMS if you’d like.
Dear Saturn,
So you finally got hitched!

The good news is that oil buildup on that skin of yours seems
to have cleared up; you’re looking much drier now!

Dear Mars,
Aren’t you sick and tired of all the fiction surrounding your
life? The lies; the innuendo; the rumours spread just to sell
some papers?

Now, when are you going to get to work on giving me grandchildren?

The problem is you’re too much of a recluse. It lends you this
As far as your complaint of a rising temperature, you’ll forgive mysterious air that causes people to believe anything they
hear about you. I would hate it if I were accused of harbouring
me if I’m a little sceptical - I’ve heard that one before. Your
extremities are still chilly so that’s a good start. If you’re really little green men every second week.
that concerned, the only way to know for sure is by taking your
temperature rectally, so I hope you’ve still got that hole in your I think you should release a tell-all and cut the grass of those
phonies trying to use your good name to make a buck.
ozone layer down south.

Hugs and kisses,

Take care of yourself,

Your pal, Deimos

Mother

Your GP

PS. Tell Phobos I said hi.

That ring looks mighty fancy; he must have spent all of five
minutes picking it out.

Community

a free
education
By Anna Angel

W

e’ll concede there’s no such thing as a free
lunch, but there should always be such thing as
a free education. Unfortunately for most, it doesn’t
usually work out that way. Some of the world’s top
universities are going a (tiny) way to rectifying this,
by offering short courses online for absolutely zero
dollars. For your zero dollars, you can access an international community of fellow learners, top notch
resources and gain new skills and knowledge. If it all
sounds too good to be true, well ... it might be, but if
there’s a catch we haven’t figured out what it is yet.

Coming soon is the much-anticipated Edx, a not-forprofit collaboration between Harvard University and
The Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT),
which will offer courses from both universities for free.
This will be a great solution for anyone who wants to
say they’ve studied at Harvard without having to sell a
kidney.

If you don’t have the time to undertake an entire
course, the library of Ted Ed, where ideas are packaged into short, punchy educational videos, is ever at
Already open is Coursera, which lists courses from
your disposal. Moreover, you can ‘flip’ the video after
Princeton, Stanford, Michigan and Pennsylvania uniwatching, turning it into a finely curated lesson you
versities. Study topics range from pharmacology to ge- can share or test yourself on. Educators can add their
nome science, to sci-fi fiction and Greek and Roman
own material, and easily share content with their stumythology. The platform continues to grow.
dents.

Even better, all the material - from some of the
world’s greatest minds - is available for free, even if
you’re not a student or a teacher. How does life begin in the deep ocean? How did James Watson discover DNA? How does a child learn language? You’ll
just have to watch.
This is the new guard of open learning, and it means
if you have an internet connection, the time, and the
passion to learn, nothing can stop you.

www.edxonline.org
www.ed.ted.com
www.coursera.org

Next

Run, Rabbit
wants YOU!
Got something to say, show or tell?
Our third issue will be themed ‘Home and Away’. We’re on the hunt
for art, photography, fiction, essays, and anything else you can see fitting in these pages that addresses the theme.
What’s with Aussie soapies? Does voluntourism actually help anyone;
if you leave home can you ever truly go back; is a man’s house his
castle; how do you host a dinner party anyway; and why isn’t homelessness a hot button issue anymore?
If you have the answer to any of these questions, stories of travel and
home, or something off-topic that will blow us away, we’d love to hear
from you.
The deadline is September 30 for pitches, and October 31 for complete submissions.